The bus pulled into the Greyhound station on the edge of town, people smoking outside, large men, brown skinned or dark, white men with red faces, all in work clothes. The only woman I saw worked the ticket window. Then I saw Shane. He was leaning on a silver SUV, brand-new by the look of it. He’d lost some of his hair, but what was left of it he still wore long and wavy, tucked into the collar of his shirt. He brought a cigarette to his mouth, which wasn’t a habit I remembered. Other than that, he looked about the same, his quick face, unfailingly friendly, eager to share all the information he had. He saw me through the bus window, stubbed out his cigarette, brought out his old grin, showed a couple of new gold teeth, raised his arm so high in the air he lifted himself off the ground. If he’d lost a few teeth over the years, hell, so had I.

Shane took my knapsack, hugged me, gave me a careful kiss on the cheek, looked to see who might’ve noticed. He ushered me into his car, closed the door, switched on the heated seats so I felt like I’d pissed myself. “It’s good for you to be met here by a man,” he said. “It’s good for them to see you’re friends with me. You can’t be too careful.”

“Sure,” I said. He pulled out of the Greyhound lot.

“I hate to say it, but these people are scum,” Shane said. “Trust me, it’s a fucking free-for-all.”

“You’ve been here all this time?” I asked. “Nearly ten years?”

“You kidding? I certainly haven’t been in this shithole the whole time,” he said. “At first the company sent me all over. Seriously, the industry’s spreading, even out to the coast. I loved the travel, but now more of the jobs are union.”

“Why not join the union?” I asked. “Better pay.”

“It’s who you know,” Shane said. “There’s a ten-year waiting list to get in. Anyway, I’m management now.”

“For rat crews,” I said.

“Call it what you want,” he said. “But I’ve learned a lot. This industry’s not so bad, no matter what all the greenies say. And I’m one, too, you know I am. Recycling, planting trees, solar power. I love all that stuff. But this is bridge fuel. It’s better than coal, that much I know. Management’s good money, I don’t have to get my hands quite so dirty, saves my back. Anyway you shouldn’t be talking union. If this was a union job you couldn’t just show up like this. No way. I’m doing you a favor. Glad to do it, too.”

“Thanks again,” I said, wondering how many more times I’d have to say it.